The Quiet American Page #11

You've mixed for yourself a drink,

but you are not drinking it, huh?

It might be unwise.

There are no secrets of the confessional

in your profession.

Secrecy is seldom important to a man

who confesses, he has other motives.

To cleanse himself.

Not always.

Sometimes he wants only to see himself

clearly as he is.

Sometime he's just

weary of deception.

If I agreed I was weary of deception,

would it necessarily mean my deception?

That depends. For instance?

Well, let's begin with plastic bicycle bombs.

The young American imported

some plastics.

- Did you know that?

- That was the first deception I had in mind.

Aesthetically, I must agree with you.

It makes as much noise. It is less expensive.

But unfortunately it will not break.

They are pretty effective

at blowing off men's legs.

Plastic noise makers?

Vigot, just for once, even unofficially,

face the truth.

Yesterday morning,

at least 50 innocent people

were blown apart by a 200-pound bomb

of Diolacton

supplied by the American to General The.

Well, if it is true, it is quite a truth.

Diolacton?

Mr. Fowler, what is Diolacton?

Well, it's an American trade name

for plastics.

It's a fictitious name.

There is no product, plastics or otherwise,

American or otherwise,

that is called Diolacton.

What difference does it make?

If this were a work of fiction

and entertainment, there would be none.

But you've applied it

to a very real, historic disaster.

Where did you hear the name?

I have seen it painted on an iron drum

discovered this afternoon,

in the junkyard of a Mr. Heng.

- Do you know him?

- No.

Oh.

He is a chief of one of the communist

assassination committees here.

He's under arrest.

What does it matter

what the plastics were called?

By any other name. The dead are dead.

All of them.

You described the bomb as being

200 pounds of,

let's call it American plastics,

somehow used as an explosive.

How?

I'm not an expert in such things.

It's a pity your French is no better

than it is, Mr. Fowler.

What's my French got to do with it?

Do you know the meaning of

the French word "plastic?"

Plastics, of course.

There's a more deadly meaning.

Plastic is a very well-known explosive.

Discovered, I believe, by the British.

It's like putty and can be shaped

into many forms.

There have been great quantities of it,

here in Indochina

since 1945, at least.

It has nothing to do with American plastic.

But I saw the press in Mr. Moi's garage.

You were sent to see the press.

It was made childishly easy for you.

Did you know that Mrs. Moi

is a relative of General The?

Did you know what Mr. Moi is?

Also under arrest.

But the guilt, Vigot.

The guilt for yesterday's mass murder.

Do you ask now about guilt?

Do you ask now about a guilt you decided

upon before the crime was committed?

And for which the sentence

has already been carried out

upon a very young man,

with, as you put it, an idea.

To whom could

the presence here of this idea

be so terrifying that it was considered

worthwhile to kill the young man

who carried it?

Because it was the idea

that had to be murdered, Mr. Fowler.

The young American merely had it

in his possession, so to say.

Haven't you gone on long enough, Vigot?

Why don't you just go away

and file it all under cases uncompleted?

My file is complete.

It is yours which is not.

- Just go away.

You know, it is a mistake to say that

communism is appealing

to the mentally advanced.

I think this is only true

when the mentally advanced

are also emotionally retarded.

Don't you agree?

So often one finds brilliant, sensitive minds

inwardly tortured

by unexplained fears and hatreds,

who find temporary peace of mind

in devoted lip service.

I'm not a communist, Vigot.

If you were, it would be less sad.

If they thought it so necessary

to assassinate him, they...

They could have done it anytime.

But someone was required

to help assassinate the idea.

Someone gifted in the use of words

to, to plead the righteousness...

I don't plead causes.

But yet someone so emotionally involved

that he would not permit even

his training as a professional reporter

to, to reject an obviously idiotic story.

Someone so emotionally involved...

Oh, you stand there

repeating yourself endlessly.

Even under the Inquisition,

confessions came to an end.

All right, mea culpa,

what do you want of me?

To see yourself plainly for once.

Stripped of intellectual pretense.

Tell me, would you have believed

what you heard without question,

without hesitation,

if you were not terrified of losing your girl

to a younger man?

Could you conceivably have passed

the judgment of death upon him

if he had not already taken your girl?

I salute your loyalty to your traditions.

Vive la France.

Cherchez la femme.

Do not underestimate either of them.

You have been looking for the girl.

She can be found starting tonight

at Le Rendezvous,

where she will dine or dance

with you or both.

If you are willing to pay.

And this is a telegram for you.

It was in the possession of Dominguez.

Was?

Oh, set Dominguez free, Vigot. He wouldn't

hurt a fly. He's innocent and gentle...

And saintly.

Wasn't it he who rented the particular car

for you when you went to Tay Ninh?

Oh, it was Mr. Heng, by the way

who disabled the American's car

and drained your tank.

They tried to kill him then.

They were quite prepared to kill you too.

Yes, but not Dominguez

just because he hired a car.

His associates tell me it was Dominguez

who first recognized

your obsessive fear of losing the girl.

It was Dominguez who first lied to you

about plastics.

It was Dominguez who first sent you

to Mr. Heng.

Dominguez followed you

the day of the explosion.

You are right, Mr. Fowler,

I do go on endlessly.

Read your cable-gram.

I have read it.

It's a strange finish for such a story.

It may appeal to you, but for my part,

I dislike happy endings of the type one finds

in the older American films,

or the newer European ones.

More crushing to you than anything else

must be the realization

that you have simply been used.

That you could be so childishly manipulated.

Now, if you will pardon my attempt

at colloquial English, Mr. Fowler.

They have made a bloody fool of you.

Have thought over your letter

and acting irrationally as you hoped,

I've told my lawyers

start divorce proceedings.

Grounds, desertion.

Helen.

Vigot, Vigot, wait for me.

Give me lift, Vigot.

Will you take me to the Rendezvous?

Even that.

Phuong, I have something for you.

Happy New Year to us both.

I am sorry, I do not yet read English.

But, well, let me read it to you then.

It's from my wife. It came today.

It's about the divorce.

She's giving me one.

You see, I wasn't lying after all.

This came from the office.

This letter came this morning.

They say I'm to stay here.

Do you understand?

We could be married and stay here.

Excusez-moi, monsieur.

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